


Ouroboros

by templeandarche



Category: Terminator (Movies), Terminator - All Media Types, The Terminator (1984)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Gen, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Original Character(s), Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeandarche/pseuds/templeandarche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unrealized reality for Sarah Connor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likeadeuce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide likeadeuce, hope you enjoy.

It was cold in the tunnels. 

A “no fire” order had come down the pipeline. There'd been an ambush fourteen hours ago; a scavenger squadron had taken heavy fire from a lone T-800 that snuck up on them during a routine salvage mission. Only one survivor had made it back, and later died on the medic’s operating table.

Total lockdown went into effect after that, including limiting any type of heat signatures that could potentially attract Metal.

Instead of surrounding the burn barrels for warmth, civilians and soldiers huddled together, indistinguishable from one another except for a rifle slung across a shoulder or a faded, ill-fitting uniform.

The sentry on duty shuffled his feet; ignoring his cramped toes and unsuccessfully stifling a yawn. It was 0300 hours; most of humanity's leftovers were asleep. Above the din of giant fans circulating filtered air and the odd bark of one of the dogs, the tunnels were quiet. 

He scratched his face, rubbing the fine bristles on his chin, and silently wished he’d gotten a stimulant from the Doc. Even some of the lukewarm sludge that Garcia called ‘coffee’ would have been a blessing. Not that Garcia knew what the fuck coffee even _was_ \- no one had actually tasted the real thing in years. But whatever secret ingredients he put into that shit could keep a soldier on the verge of exhaustion going for days.

“Reese. Report.” 

Kyle straightened and barked his reply. “Lieutenant Garrison. Sir. No enemy sightings or movement. Underground is secure.”

“Excellent.” She nodded in approval and he visibly relaxed his stance. He accepted the stainless steel mug she handed him, gulping back a swallow, hiding his smile. Garrison always knew what her soldiers needed.

She sipped her own mug with one hand, the other arm relaxed at her at her hip, but in easy reach of her side arm. Sharp blue eyes scanned her surroundings, not missing a thing. Unlike some of the white bellies in Global Command, Garrison had seen real combat. She’d been involved on the frontlines of this war; crawling and scraping her way out of the ruined aftermath of Judgement Day when she was only just a kid.

(Not that any of them were _old_ anymore. Kyle had learned how to shoot before he’d learned how to drive.)

She knew how to fight, she knew how to lead, and she knew exactly how to fuck Metal up. Connor respected her immensely, often requesting her opinion or help with mission planning (and if talk around the base was true - she was involved more intimately with their leader than anyone else).

But no one thought _that_ was why Connor had given Garrison the highest clearance, making her privy to even the most top secret shit, things that were only whispered about—rumours of ‘special’ Terminators, even more powerful and cunning than the skin suits, or the mythical enemy labs guarded by serious heavy Metal and containing weapons tech so advanced their own brainiacs couldn’t even begin to decipher how to use it. 

She'd saved everyone in their unit, countless times over. The last time some idiot from Global Command tried to suggest her position was earned through anything other than balls and blood, he'd been sent back to HQ minus a few teeth.

Knocking him on his ass was worth the two months of latrine duty. The tongue lashing from Garrison was worse.

“Any response on my request for transfer, Lieutenant?” Kyle asked.

Garrison shook her head. “Not yet, soldier.”

Kyle frowned but didn’t comment. He’d put in a formal request through COC to join one of the Recovery Units. He wanted to join the craziest and bravest men and women in this corner of the resistance, whose task was to rescue the survivors that Skynet had captured. They chased after armoured convoys of humans enroute to the enemy’s work camps, hoping to take back the hostages before they reached enemy territory. The machines didn’t make it easy though—they never used the same route twice to transfer the POW’s. And if the metal assholes on the ground weren’t bad enough, Skynet always made sure the HK-Aerial units hovered above, dropping death from the sky on anyone who dared to pick a fight.

The casualty rate was the one of the highest—most Recovs never made it through more than three or four retrievals. Kyle’s own boots had come from a legendary Gunnery Sergeant who infamously made it to six before getting his upper body separated from his lower during run number seven.

Garrison watched him carefully. “You looking to die quicker or something?”

“No sir,” he replied, his tone clipped. 

Eyes narrowed, she ordered, “drop the formality, Reese. Why are you looking to leave my squad?” 

Fighting to keep his voice even, Kyle replied. "I don't want to leave your unit, Lieutenant. I just need to get out there and kill some machines. You've kept me underground since we lost Murphy's recon team two months ago."

He pulled down the collar of his shirt so she could see the line of his long, ragged scar, still pink from healing. "I know you think I'm not ready, but I'm fine." They'd gone in for support and no one had walked away whole. The blast that killed Mika and took Singh's leg had torn a hole open across his chest. There was still a bit of shrapnel lodged in his shoulder, serving as a constant reminder; the Doc had dug out what he could and patched him up quickly to slow the blood loss. 

Garrison stayed quiet and kept her body still. There was something in her eyes that Kyle couldn't read; but she blinked once, twice, and it was gone.

"You're not transferring, Reese," she told him. "Connor has something else in mind for you."

***

Garrison acknowledged the armed men standing at attention outside the entrance to Connor’s sanctuary with a crooked half-smile before entering the room. She swung the door shut behind her and leaned back against the cold steel. The bunk she shared with the man seated on the small cot before her had been a bomb shelter before J-Day. Anything of value had been long salvaged; the metal shelving stripped back to it’s bare bones to help fix broken machinery, the heavy flannel bedding sewn into clothing to keep the few children survivors warm, and any food supplies digested years ago and long forgotten.

John Connor had kept only the yellowing poster of a kitten clinging precariously to a tree branch. It hung above a tiny desk covered in maps, tech schematics, and mission reports. The first night in the bunker he’d told Garrison that the caption underneath was all they needed to rally the troops into surviving the apocalypse. “It’s perfect. ‘Hang in there, Baby.’ We’ll have the machines beaten in a couple of weeks. A month, tops.”

Garrison remembered sitting on the ground, back to back, so one of them could sleep a few hours while the other stood watch. Exhausted, she’d tried not to laugh, knowing it would cause her bruised ribs to flare, but she’d failed and coughed the laugh away instead. 

Connor stayed silent while she joined him on the bed. She rested her head on his shoulder and relaxed into the arm he snaked around her waist. Here, they weren’t Connor and Garrison, carrying the heavy weight of the lives of those that depended on them. Inside this cramped space they could relax and talk freely. Connor even smiled on occasion.

His large, callused hand covered her small, pale one. He squeezed, offering encouragement. “I know it’s hard for you.” He turned to kiss the top of her head. “Seeing him. Knowing who his is.”

In her mind, Garrison kept seeing Kyle's unconscious body bleeding out over a bone and metal battleground. It wasn't just being around him that was hard. Having to keep him safe when every day could be his last? Now that was hard.

“He asked about his transfer.” 

“We knew that would happen,” Connor said. “What did you tell him?” 

Garrison shrugged. “The truth. That we couldn’t let him join a Recov team in case he died before we sent him back in time.” 

“I’m sure Reese took that news well,” Connor said. “Did he ask what drug you’d slipped into Garcia’s crap that you insist on drinking?”

She allowed a small smile. “I told him that, you— _the_ —John Connor, leader of the Resistance, needed him in place for something very secret and very dangerous.”

“That is the truth, more or less.” Connor rose from the bed and picked one of the maps on his desk. “Here,” he pointed out, “this is where reconnaissance has noticed the machines gathering in full force. Skynet has mass amounts of energy being diverted to this location. They’re building something.”

“You think this is it? The complex that will house the TDE?” Garrison asked excitedly.

“Maybe.” Connor shook his head. “It’s too early to tell. Could just be another processing plant for more metal assholes.”

“But,” he added, “it’s promising. We’ll keep watching, maybe send a small unit in for a closer look.”

Garrison knew she should stay detached. Remain calm. But this, _this_ is what set them all on the path to where they are today. This was the right place, the right time, she knew it in her gut. This was the factory that the Resistance would capture, the one with the time displacement equipment— _the fucking time machine_ —that will let them send Kyle Reese back to 1984. 

To her mother, Sarah Connor. 

And start this fucking merry-go-round of misery and death all over again.

Garrison reached into her front pocket and pulled out a weathered scrap of plastic. On it, a very pregnant young woman smiled wanly, sadness peeking out from the corners. Garrison ran her thumb once across the stained photo and held it out to Connor. “Take this. You'll need it soon.”

John took it without question and cradled it in his hand. It was a face he knew all too well. After all, she’d saved him, too.

It’s what Sarah Connor did. And maybe what she will do, if they can rewrite this future somehow.

The picture disappeared into his jacket, breast pocket. “I wish sometimes,” he said, “that everyone knew just how important you are. To the Resistance, to our survival.” She snorted at his sentiments and bent down to unlace her boots.

“My mother had accepted it all, I think.” She yanked off her boots, slid off her jacket, and stretched her lean frame across the narrow bed. “What my father told her, about the future, Skynet, Judgment Day—all of it.” Garrison raised an arm above her head, fluffed her coat up to use as a pillow. “Memorized that damn message about fate. Everything.

“She learned to shoot and fight and then hid herself in South America, waiting for her son the saviour to be born.”

Garrison gestured angrily to her body. “And she got me instead.”

She swung herself upright and lowered her head. John rubbed the back of her neck and tried to help ease the tension she carried. He gently tugged the ends of her choppy hair. “I don’t believe for a second that she regretted it. That she didn’t love you.”

Sighing, she pulled him back down beside her. “I know she loved me. She just didn’t know what to _do_ with me. I wasn’t what Kyle had said would happen. Everything else had come true. So why was I different?"

“Maybe Reese was wrong, or maybe destroying the Terminator Skynet sent back to kill her altered the timeline somehow. So she kept us off the radar. Still trained me, taught me about fighting styles and tactical planning, and we put stashes of guns and bottled water and canned food all over the goddamned place.”

“Just in case," Connor said.

"Just in case," she repeated. Her mother had spent countless hours molding herself and her daughter into excellent marksmen, war strategists, _leaders_. Sarah Connor had followed anyone who could teach her - an ex-Spetnaz soldier, a former bodyguard to a Chilean dictator, and a Polish arms trader who loved cartoons and would watch them with Garrison on occasion.

Garrison closed her eyes. “But, maybe part of her stopped believing. Or she thought I was a sign that things wouldn't happen. She kept up with tech advancements, had contacts in robotics and AI fields. But she heard nothing." She felt John's hand brush her cheek and opened her eyes. "And then J-Day happened. Three billion people gone in minutes. She couldn’t keep hiding anymore... and I think she blamed herself. Maybe if she'd tried to find out where Skynet came from, there would’ve been some computer company that she thought _might_ be where it all started.

"She needed to go to Los Angeles to find the Resistance, she had to know Kyle was ok - hell, that he was _real_." 

“But there wasn’t a Resistance, at least not yet.” John said.

“No, there wasn’t. I don’t even think she understood until that first night back in what was left of LA.”

Connor raised a brow. “Understood what?”

“That she was the start of it. Of all of it.” Garrison smiled. “She even influenced what name I used, since I couldn’t be known as Alex Connor.”

“She helped build this underground fortress to help fight Skynet, and organize the survivors. Made us strong so we could win the war. And she died keeping us safe.”

Alex linked her hand with his. “She just needed to find John Connor to do it.”

“Does it ever bother you - having this burden, this false legacy, forced on you?” They’d never spoken of the promises they’d made to her mother, who even while dying was so fierce with her demands.

“Never,” he answered. “You’ve always carried it with me.”

***

They’d lost the dog somewhere close to what used to be the US-Mexico border. A skirmish with a T-800 model had cost them the rest of the .50 BMGs rounds, a couple of napalm charges, and the life of Alex’s shepherd mix, Molly.

She took it as well as to be expected, brushing silent, angry tears off her face as she inspected the gash on Sarah’s arm.

They’d found a temporary refuge in a back room of what used to be toy store. Blackened dolls and burnt stuffed animal remains mixed with crumbling cement and brick. Most of the block was rubble, but the ass-end of this building was intact and appeared to be structurally sound. Sarah kept the assault rifle on her lap and her Beretta pointed at the doorway, gritting her teeth while Alex cleaned her wound. “Won’t need stitches, Mom.” 

“Alex,” she warned. “Don’t ever call me that. Not in the field.”

“Yes, sir,” her daughter replied automatically as she expertly dressed the injured arm.

Sarah frowned, torn between wanting to comfort her daughter’s grief and annoyance that she’d been careless. Skynet had no knowledge of Alex Connor's existence. There was no birth record or medical files or even a report card with that name on it. Skynet knew only about her and the son she never had.

She planned on keeping it that way.

But before she could choose to chastise or soothe, Sarah felt the hair stand on the back of her neck. She motioned to Alex to stay still and quiet. The girl froze and waited for her mother to give her an order. Sarah glanced around the stockroom, gun at the ready, placed the rifle on her shoulder and nodded at an ajar cupboard door.

Alex moved like a whisper, and tucked herself away, but not before Sarah handed her the Beretta. Leaving the door open enough to watch her mother, Alex crouched, thumb over the safety, and took two deep breaths to calm the adrenaline, just like her mother had trained her. 

The gun was a familiar weight in her hands. She'd become an expert shot by her tenth birthday.

Something rustled nearby. Sarah tensed her muscles, listening. Steps, light—someone walking. Not Metal. Didn't mean there wasn't a threat—a desperate human was capable of doing terrible things to survive. She positioned herself beside the doorway and eased the rifle off her shoulder, wincing as the pain shot up her arm. But her aim was steady.

The footsteps were at the entrance to the stockroom. She pounced as he came through the door, slamming him into the crumbling wall, face first. Jamming the rifle into his shoulders, she growled. "Hands! Hands up where I can see them."

He complied and she kicked apart his feet, widening his stance. Alex appeared at her side. "Check to see if he had friends." 

Alex nodded and disappeared through the doorway. Sarah checked their new friend for weapons. Coming up empty, she spun him around and took a step back, pointing her rifle at his head.

_Jesus Christ._

"Please," he croaked, hands still in the air. "Please don't kill me."

He was just a kid. Not much older than Alex.

Dirty and painfully thin. His terrified brown eyes darted around the room, like a caged animal looking for an escape.

"He's alone. Sir."

Alex took a step towards the teenager, but Sarah stuck her arm out. "Where's your family, kid?" Alex stayed in place but gently pushed her Mother's arm out of the way. Sarah frowned, but let it go.

"Dead. All dead." He was crying now, unabashedly - just a young boy who'd witnessed true horror and loss. "Everyone's gone." He wiped furiously at his face, tears washing away the grime. "I've been hiding at night, when the machines are out. But there's no food, and we're so hungry."

"There's more of you?" Alex asked. She glanced up at her Mother, waiting for her reaction. Sarah remained stoic, but lowered the gun a few inches.

"There's an old man, he's hurt and I think may be dying," he told them. "And there's Anna, and her daughter. Mr. Peterson. Plus a few others." His crying subsided as watched Sarah, pleading with his eyes for help.

Satisfied he was not a threat, she slung the rifle across her back. The boy slumped, relief painted on his features. Sarah offered a hand. "My name is Sarah.'' She tilted her head towards her daughter. "That's Alex."

"What's your name?" Alex asked.

"Jonathan." He smiled as he shook Sarah's hand. "Jonathan Conner."

***

It was supposed to be nighttime.

At least, that was what they’d hoped. The TDE techs seemed to think that the cover of darkness would make a better backdrop for a naked man appearing out of nowhere in a giant blue ball of electricity. The team had used what little records that remained of pre-J-Day Los Angeles to try and pinpoint a safe enough spot to drop him. A vacant lot or abandoned warehouse. Even a back alley would work.

Not that Reese completely trusted them. The Resistance had only taken control of the Skynet time travel facility for a short time and they were playing with sciences so beyond advanced that he had no idea if they could even figure out how to work the tech. In the end though, it didn't really matter. He was going to let them throw his body, his mind, through time itself. One unarmed man against a Terminator.

All for _her_.

He sat in the background, nervous with anticipation, holding a picture - a gift from John Connor himself. It’s a face that calls to him, and he’s often imagined just what she was thinking of when the photo was taken.

Sarah Connor was revered among the Resistance and Kyle was shocked when John presented it to him months ago. It was the anniversary of the day they’d broken free of Skynet’s work camp. Kyle carried it everywhere, figuring it a lucky talisman every time he returned from a mission.

“On your feet, Soldier.” Garrison stood before him, interrupting his thoughts. She offered a hand. “They’re ready for you.”

He looked behind her to where Connor and the techs stood and grasped her wrist, letting her pull him up. 

“Lieutenant, here - you should have this.” He held out the photo to her. “Only living tissue can go through.”

“Of course,” she replied, trying to find the right words. It was the last time he’d be alive in this time, and she was sending him back to her dead mother and securing her own existence. There wasn’t a goodbye in the world to cover that. 

Instead, she clasped the picture to her chest. 

“Good luck, Kyle.”

He gave her one last smile in parting.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Terminator timelines are... confusing at best. I'm following the original film taking place in 1984, and an (apx) 20 year old Sarah Connor giving birth to her child in 1985 with Judgement Day occurring in 1997 (if ages of characters and timelines are something anyone is wondering while reading this :) ).
> 
> While this meant to be an AU of the original film, I have incorporated some small elements from T2 and T:TSCC.
> 
> 2.Thanks to my awesome betas for all the encouragement, re-reads, late night chat sessions, and keeping me focused during my super busy work schedule. You are both amazing.


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